French

I am in a state of extreme nervous tension. My French oral is tomorrow morning at ten to eleven, and I am more frightened than I have ever been for any exam/test ever. That would probably be because I never get scared of exams or tests except orals, and this ain't a mock, tis the real doodah, as Becca would say. Helena says she can tell I'm frightened as I'm talking too fast. I really am, too. Even I can't understand myself.

I am fuck-shit-arse frightened because I just know that however much I revise, and however much I think I know, it'll go whoosh out of my head the moment I enter the holding room. And there's another crappy thing about it - "holding room." You have to wait in the holding room. It's like you're getting executed. "Yeah, doll, I want a chicken fajita with sour cream and salsa for my last meal, and my last words are 'you're all a bunch of fuckers' so have a nice day now...."

[The following is teh Raven's attempt to be reasonable, calm down and stop swearing]

It's only twenty-five percent of one GCSE. I got an A* in the mock, I could hardly have done better and I hadn't revised as much as I have now. I'm not superhumanly intelligent, I can do what I can do and nothing more, and the calmer I am the better I'll do, and what I won't do is better than I'm physically able to do. Even if I do fuck it up, it's not the end of the world. And I can always run away to sea.

In conclusion, je ne parle pas francais, je voudrais me suicider maintenant, et les fleurs sont mortes.